


Wolf Heat

by Mandibles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Fluff, I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE THE SECOND CHAPTER CAME FROM, It's 4AM and my feet are cold, M/M, Oh and Jackson has a cat mug because of reasons, Pack Feels, Post-Season 2, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 21:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Normally, werewolves run hot. Jackson, though, is just so cold to Scott.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Normally, werewolves run hot, radiating the kind of heat that bursts forth when you check on the peanut butter cookies in the oven, the smell just as warm as the air, or the kind that seeps into your skin when you sink deep into a steamy bath until the water passes your nose, water and suds sloshing over the side. It’s something that took a while for Scott to get used to, this constant state of warmth that made summers almost unbearable.

Jackson is different, though. Unlike the rest of the pack, unlike any other werewolf Scott has ever met, Jackson seems to be in a constant state of cold. Scott wonders sometimes if it’s some side effect from, you know, being the kanima. Like, while sitting too long in the sun has the other Betas slick with sweat, close to lolling their tongues out, barely even a bead of liquid forms on Jackson’s brow.  It’s something that, though small, still draws this line between  _pack_  and  _Jackson_.

It’s why when winter comes and a—rather scant, actually—snowfall starts, Scott finds Jackson curled up on the couch in fluffly blankets and a kitty mug of hot chocolate and a Beacon Hills lacrosse hoodie in front of his fireplace while wolves and humans play about outside in his yard. Jackson greets him with a stiff stare as he steps closer, shakes off his gloves so his hands can prickle back to full warmth. 

“Hey,” Scott says for lack of anything else. Jackson’s face pinches into a scowl and—shit—did he say something wrong? “Um …”

Jackson sniffs. “You’re getting my floor wet, McCall.”

Scott glances down and, sure enough, the pretty sprinkle of snowflakes on his hat and coat have melted and pooled around his boots. He looks up, offers a crooked, apologetic grin. “Er, sorry?”

“Look, just decide where you want to be, all right? You’re not going to be running in and out and getting my shit dirty.”

“Yeah, okay.” He glances behind him and catches a glimpse of Allison hitting Boyd square in the face with a snowball from the window. However, he finds himself taking off his coat and other winter stuffs and hanging them on the hooks Jackson points out to him. Jackson pulls his legs in, making room for Scott to plop down.

They sit in a simple, almost amiable silence, the crackling and thick, warm smell from the fireplace filling in the empty space. And, Scott is actually content to leave it at that until he feels Jackson’s bare toes wriggling against his side. He can’t stop his laugh and Jackson’s cheeks burn.

“It’s cold,” he explains sullenly, curling his toes back.

Scott stops him, takes in Jackson’s gasp when he wraps his hands around his feet. They’re  _freezing_ , alarmingly so. 

“What’re you—”

“It’s okay,” Scott reassures with a one-shouldered shrug. He tugs at an ankle and he meets Jackson’s eyes. “Just let me …”

A strange look passes over Jackson’s face, but it’s gone quickly and he actually nods, stretching his legs over Scott’s lap. They slip into that silence again as Scott carefully strokes Jackson’s feet, massaging the soles for a time before his hands drift higher, rubbing warmth back into his calves. It’s not until he reaches the back of the knees when Scott smells it, like the cinnamon in Jackson’s cat mug.

Arousal.

He should stop; hell, he should have stopped ages ago. Yet, instead, Scott only dips his head and presses a kiss to the cotton, the sweatpants covering Jackson’s kneecap. Jackson jerks his legs back, almost getting him in the teeth.

He pulls back into himself under all those covers and Scott suddenly feels very stupid.

“What the  _hell_  was that?” Jackson hisses, eyes wide.

Scott retreats back to his end of the couch in shame, scratches the back of his neck. “I—I don’t know. You were—You were cold and I …” The excuse crumbles, the sentence spiraling into nothing. “I’m sorry?”

Jackson turns his head towards the fireplace, the light soft on his face. “It’s your  _girlfriend_  you should be apologizing to.”

“We aren’t dating anymore,” Scott points out sourly, glancing out the window again.

But, Jackson only scoffs and reaches for his hot chocolate from under his bundle. “You’ll get back together,” he mutters, the wound Lydia left him with clearly still raw, on the surface. “You always do.”

Scott isn’t exactly sure what it is, whether it’s Allison or Lydia or Jackson or himself, but he ends up back in Jackson’s space, the mug toppling to the floor in a splash of sweet chocolately goodness that Scott can taste on Jackson’s tongue. The kiss is one-sided for a breath, then Jackson curls cold fingers into Scott’s hair and pulls him closer.

They stay like that, Scott breathing wolf heat into Jackson, until the front door opens. And Allison gasps.


	2. Chapter 2

Scott almost doesn’t stop. He’s so caught up in enveloping Jackson with his body heat and—strangely—his scent, that if Jackson hadn’t shoved at him, not even Allison would have been able to draw him away. But, he does and he snaps away from the kiss to meet his ex-girlfriend’s round eyes with absolutely no clue what to say besides her name— _Allison_ —soft, low . . . but not apologetic.

He expects the guilt that’s sinking in stomach, clawing at his chest, yet he can’t find the regret. Because, somehow, he doesn’t regret it—any of it—and the realization scares him.

“Allison,” he tries again, “Allison, I—This—” He perks and scrambles back from his sprawl over Jackson just as the rest of the pack bursts through the door, swarms the living room in a flurry of flushed cheeks and breathless laughs and cold. Scott almost misses the achy quivering in his chest, his fingertips, as damp winter things are thrown about and Jackson barks at the lot of them somewhere in the distance.

Stiles pounces him and he just manages a grin. “Missed you out there, buddy! We made _art_.” He waves his hand across the empty canvas of air. “Sourwolf: The Snowman. Or Snow-wolf? Sour-snow-wolfman?” His face twists in thought and Scott shakes his head, huffs a laugh.

“Shit, that’s awesome! But, um—” He glances over Stiles’ shoulder: Allison, smile tense, is caught in an excited conversation with Erica and Jackson’s dipping back into his covers, fishing between the cushions. And, he finds himself torn. “Um . . .”

Stiles palms his shoulder. “Hey, you okay? You’re looking kinda—Wait.” He frowns slightly and—shit—follows Scott’s line of sight. Before Scott can snap his attention away from Jackson, before he can piece together some excuse, Stiles is lunging over the back of the couch and groping for the remote in Jackson’s grasp. “Whoa, hey, dude! Turn it to channel sixty-three?”

Jackson pulls away. “Why?”

“Uh, Christmas specials! Duh,” Stiles drawls, chasing after the remote. Naturally, it starts a scuffle.

“It’s still _November_!” Erica groans, nudging at Stiles with no real reason beside the fact that she could.

Boyd sidles by her and slides an arm around her waist. “It’s after Thanksgiving, though,” he points out.

“This is Christmas: Part One, right, Scott?” Isaac adds. Scott smiles when Isaac slings an arm around his shoulders and Erica pulls at his ear and Boyd ruffles Stiles’ hair.

This is a scenting thing, a comfort thing, a _pack_ thing. It’s something that, Scott quickly realizes, Jackson seems to be excluded from. And, Jackson knows it; his face says it all. The fact that Allison finds herself sitting out as well only makes Scott’s chest lurch.

Eventually, Jackson breaks his cocoon, fending Stiles off with a flailing hand, steps down, and— “Wha—Oh, fuckin’ A, McCall!” He jerks his foot away from the mess of hot chocolate on the floor and Scott finds himself grinning sheepishly as Stiles hoots with laughter, snatches the remote from Jackson’s fingers.

“I’ll get a towel?” Scott offers.

And, Jackson sniffs. “Damn right, you are. Linen closet. Upstairs.”

When Scott returns with a rough towel, dingy from too many washings, he finds the television blaring some Christmas cartoon and everyone settled with Allison sandwiched between Stiles and Isaac on the loveseat and Boyd and Erica cuddling on the couch with Jackson sitting sullenly at his end, his wet foot still extended over the mess on the floor. Scott catches Jackson eye when he approaches and—oh. Shit, this could be awkward.

Scott waves the towel. “Is this—”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Do you want me to . . .” He gestures to Jackson’s foot.

Jackson nods slowly, eyes firm on him. “Yeah,” he says, jutting his chin out. Scott supposes it’s meant to be commanding, very ha-ha-look-at-you-taking-my-orders-y, but it’s far too breathy to manage it. The tone only makes Scott’s heart flutter.

It’s just a foot, he reminds himself as he lifts Jackson’s leg and starts to gently scrub away sticky residue. Still, he can’t help but remember with equal parts affection and accusation that it was these little, icy toes that started this, these weird feelings, in the first place. After a moment, he can feel Allison’s eyes on him; a little longer and Boyd starts to notice.

Jackson curls his foot away, his face strangely soft, gentle. Scott finds himself lost in the oddity of the expression, almost not caring that the tension in the air has changed, that even Stiles side-glances their way.

With a growl, a “Dammit, you’re taking too long,” Jackson wrenches the towel from his lax grasp and drops it on the floor. Then, he’s grabbing at Scott’s wrists and for an awful, beautiful, fleeting moment, Scott thinks that Jackson is going to kiss him right there in front of everyone, in front of _Allison_ , but, no, he only climbs off the couch and drags him into the kitchen with a cold, bone-shifting grip.

He winces at the dig of counter in his back, yet that doesn’t stop him from lurching forward when Jackson draws close.

Jackson twists away from the lips with a hiss. “What the _fuck_ has gotten into you, McCall?”

Scott stares, because who knows? It could be something stupid and petty like the breakup, he just indulging that little voice in him that he denies exists that just wants to get back at Allison, just a little, teensy, weensy bit. Or, maybe, it’s just because he hasn’t gotten off in months, and Jackson’s pretty enough, pliant enough, to let him _touch_. Hell, it could be because the moon is waxing or that he stubbed his toe this morning or that he was late to the animal clinic. It could be _anything_.

But, he doesn’t care. Right now there’s only this hazy, dizzying need to taste Jackson again, blurring all senses.

“Look, I’ll be upfront with you. That—” Jackson stabs his finger at the door, at the living room, at the couch where they— “That didn’t happen, _capisce_? So, you’re going to have to work out any fucking crisis you’re going through right here, right now, before they—” He stabs his finger again. “—get any wrong ideas.”

A beat.

“What if it isn’t the wrong idea?”

“What?”

Scott licks his lips. “Why couldn’t there be anything between us?”

A strangled noise. “I’m not going to be your rebound, Scott,” Jackson snarls.

“Maybe I want to be your rebound,” Scott counters. He must’ve grown a few extra heads in the duration of the sentence, because Jackson looks painfully disturbed. Then, angry. “You felt something back there,” Scott insists, pressing into the other wolf’s space. “You did; I smelled it on you.”

Jackson scowls, trapped.

“ _You can’t lie_.”

In the end, defeat pulls at Jackson’s face and he steps away, hugs himself tightly, rubs warmth into his arms. His gaze drifts towards the sounds of cartoon violence and laughter a ways off. “Fine,” he growls, “Fine, okay? I did. I . . . I did. Now, can we just move on and forget about it? Especially since she’s out there?”

Scott reaches for him, curls his fingers around a cool chin and brushes cold cheeks. “But, not for good, right?” he whispers, huffing hot breath across his face. “We can’t be forgetting this forever.”

Jackson reeks of uncertainty, chilling fear, but he quickly eases Scott into an embrace, resting his head in the crook of his neck and icy fingers creeping to the sweaty skin under his sweater. They spend a moment like that, inhaling and exhaling as warmth bleeds into Jackson, before he mumbles, “It’s so cold.”

And, it’s not a real answer to his question, but Scott can’t help but grin crookedly and wrap his arms around Jackson’s waist. “I’ll get you warm,” he promises. 


End file.
